


lost dog

by ElisAttack



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (for now) - Freeform, Character Study, Multi, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Stand Alone Chapters, incarceration is for colonizers, just an ongoing series of vignettes in the current MCU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:28:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Infinity War, and its ripple effects.Or, the one where lost dogs always return home.





	1. Erik, son of N'Jobu

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just the contents of a Google doc featuring all my MCU feels that don't fit in a plotted fic, and are pretty much canon. Each chapter can be read on its own, and it will update sporadically.
> 
> This first vignette takes place near the end of Black Panther, but the rest will deal with Infinity War, hence the tag.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Erik, son of N'Jobu**

Sunsets in Wakanda are beautiful.  Orange and reds bathe the valley, setting it alight in a fiery blaze.  His vision is failing, black creeping in. Or perhaps it is the darkness that comes after the setting sun.

He watched the Lion King with his dad when he was only six years old.  It was a first for both of them. Everything the light touches ain’t for second sons.

Ain’t for second class citizens.

“You were right, cousin, in many things, as you were wrong in many others,”  T’Challa says, his eyes glow like the sparks from a muzzle, wet with tears.

N'Jadaka.  Erik Killmonger.  Erik Stevens lies on the dusty earth, his lungs slowly filling with fluid.  He will drown as he wanted. It is his choice.

“There are no prisons in Wakanda,”  T’Challa says, and Erik coughs in a disbelieving laugh.  “Prisons are the way of the colonizer, and Wakanda has never been colonized.”

Erik rolls his head to the side, looking at T’Challa.  “I grew up in Oakland. Every black man I knew spent time behind bars.”

“I am sorry,”  T’Challa says, and the furrow deepens between his brows.  Ah, there it is, the goddamned pity. There’s nothing more useless than pity.  Anger gets shit done. Pity sits, and it stagnates.

“That is not our way,”  T’Challa says, and he is sincere, or at least he thinks he is.

If there's one thing Erik knows is that given the chance, the system will always choose bondage.  The only escape from chains is to rip free, or die trying. And Erik has tried, and he has lost. He has a gun in his hand, a knife in the other, his dad's ring around his neck, and he's got dead people carved into his skin.  He won't ever stop fighting, even as he's dying. There is no redemption for him. Least not how T’Challa speaks of it.

“We could save you,”  T’Challa offers once again.

“You can’t save me,”  Erik rasps, bitter death in his mouth.  He closes his eyes, and when he opens them he's in his childhood apartment.  Bathed in purples, an endless twilight burns through the plastic blinds. His dad sits cross-legged beside him.

He smiles, eyes glittering.  An arm falls over his thin shoulders, and he's a child again, looking up to his dad.  He's pulled closer, soft lips to his forehead.

“How unfortunate, Erik.  It would seem our troubles are generational.”

Erik chuckles softly.


	2. Nakia of the River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We are a mango ripe for picking, and the United Nations believes it is their duty to stop any one country from bleeding us dry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place sometime between Black Panther and Infinity War, and explains Nakia's absence from Wakanda

**Nakia of the River**

“We ask that Wakanda have a permanent place on the Security Council, with full veto powers.  The system has remained unchanged since the end of World War II, while the globe has transformed.  Wakanda has opened its borders for the first time since its conception, and the world has come to see what our nation has to offer.  What we are willing to give—”

“You should not be asking.”

Nakia glances up from her tablet, Okoye has managed to sneak up on her again.

She is home, the one place she willingly lets down her guard, and Okoye takes full advantage.

She slides up to Nakia, and takes the tablet from her hand, the spear she keeps on her at all times leans against her shoulder as she reads.  “Ah, see here.” She points to a line of dialogue that Nakia is quite proud of.

“I am trying to be diplomatic,”  Nakia snatches the tablet from her, but scrolls to another section.  She is not that pigheaded to ignore advice from a woman of Okoye’s experience.  Nakia understands infiltration, she understands politics, but sometimes in politics, one must not be political.  “What about this?”

Okoye reads, then shakes her head.  “You are asking, Nakia,” she says, “Wakanda should not ask.  You must demand.”

Nakia sighs, tugging on the twist of her head scarf.  “We have newly revealed ourselves, how can we demand a permanent seat on the Security Council when a country like India has been petitioning for years to no avail?”

“No other land has what Wakanda has.”  Okoye gestures out the window to the capital sprawls, a marvel of city planning.  “The other member nations have nuclear power. What is nuclear but the ability to enrich uranium?  Our scientists have vibranium, our technology is vibranium.” She raps her spear on the floor, one two three times, and the metal sings.  “Our country was born from vibranium. It is the cleanest energy. The world knows this, and they want it. If they give us a seat, they shall have it.”

“We are already negotiating trade deals with the outside,”  Nakia says. Rising from the divan, she walks to the opposite window looking out upon the Border lands, Okoye follows.  “Flooding the markets with cheap vibranium is the best way to starve black market dealers.”

Wakanda hopes to help, and their help is unconditional.  The princess is posting her inventions open source. Their diplomats are opening embassies all over the world.

Wakanda must succeed in this endeavor, as they have in all endeavors.

“They do not know this.  For all the world understands, we have opened our borders because the throne was threatened by an outsider.”  Okoye says with a twist of her mouth. “They think our rescinding from isolation is a direct result of Killmonger.  That if something happens again, we would need foreign aid. That is what the world thinks of Wakanda. We are a mango ripe for picking, and the United Nations believes it is their duty to stop any one country from bleeding us dry.”

“They are... condescending,”  Nakia says, wincing, remembering the conversations she had with a fellow ambassador, right after T’Challa appointed her as his representative.  Not much is known about Wakanda, but stereotypes exist regardless. Okoye is right, Wakanda is powerful, and opinions have shifted, but not in the direction they want.  

“They are paternalistic,”  Okoye corrects, “Which is why we must present a strong face.”

“T’Challa does not want an arms race,”  Nakia warns.

Okoye sweeps out her arms.  “And yet, we have all these weapons, for what?”

“You know why, Okoye,”  Nakia frustrates. After N’Jobu’s betrayal, King T'Chaka ordered the fortification of the military to ensure the loss of so much vibranium would never happen again.  Inversely, T’Challa has ordered a reduction in weapons stockpiles, to which the council has voiced strong opinions.

“A globalized nation is only as strong as its military,”  Okoye says with a sly smirk.

Nakia rolls her eyes sarcastically, shaking her head.  “Ay, which white man did you hear that from?”

“All of them preach it, and they are fools.  A nation is only as strong as her citizens, and you, our diplomat, are the strongest of us all.”

“Do not let T’Challa hear you say that,”  Nakia teases, nudging Okoye’s shoulder with her own.

Okoye smiles fondly.  “Nakia, he would agree with me.”

“I would agree with what?”

Okoye winks covertly, before whirling around and smiling widely at T’Challa.  “That Nakia is the most beautiful woman alive.”

“Is there a contest?  I thought that was obvious,”  T’Challa says, even as he stumbles over the edge of the carpet, catching himself at the last moment on the side table.  He clears his throat, and adjusts his clothes. He is a ridiculous man, but Nakia loves him regardless. “Have you packed, Nakia?”

“I have,”  she says, tucking the tablet away, she walks up to T’Challa and holds his hands in hers.

“I will miss you,”  T’Challa says, swinging their hands playfully as they did when they were children,  “And you are taking my favourite Dora Milaje.”

Nakia frowns.  “Okoye is sponsoring W'Kabi, she’s not coming to Vienna.”

“I’m am talking about Ayo,”  T’Challa leans closer, a boyish grin on his lips,  “Okoye is mean.”

“My good King,”  Okoye goes over and places a hand on T’Challa’s shoulder,  “At least this time you did not freeze.”


	3. The Weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who will protect you, ásynja?” The Panther dissolves, and a woman stands before her; tall, elegant, and beautiful. “Once you have glimpsed the future in the weft and the weave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking, is this a Bast/Frigga drabble??? You bet your sweet ass it is.

**The Weaver**

The Weaver slips through the world and steps onto Midgard.  The comet has struck, digging a massive crater into the land.  Blue veins protrude, throbbing from the seiðr running through the mountains.  Her daughter will learn of this power soon. If The Weaver is not quick, she will come, and then she will strip this land bare to its bones.

Her daughter.  Her child, but her husband's failure.  His indiscretion. His blinding greed.

The Weaver strokes her hand across the warp of seiðr.  She draws a bobbin from her waist, a single, endless yarn wrapped around eternity.  She begins the weave. Lift the airy heddles, the earth rises and falls. The Midgardians exclaim in terror.  A draw of the bobbin through the soil, the weft beaten down with the power of a hurricane. She plucks her sorcery, as she weaves the world.  She weaves protection. She weaves invisibility. She weaves a shield of magic and love.

She was offered a sacrifice, and she uses that power to hide Midgard from her daughter's rampaging eyes.  They want protection from cold. Protection from starvation. For themselves, for their children, and their children’s children.  She will grant them protection from a dying of sorts.

She is worshipped on this plane, and The Weaver is nothing if not generous.

Eventually, her fastidious work draws attention.  Not from The Gorilla, native to this land. He pays no attention to the magic spinning from her fingers.  Instead, he concerns himself with the worldly matter of his people. He is a fierce being, deserving of her respect.  Deserving of her distance.

It is The Panther that slips through the fabric of the world.  She comes to investigate The Weaver’s presence. She is a sleek, gorgeous thing.  Black, like the space between stars, with eyes of the richest purple. She rubs against The Weaver’s legs as she works, powerful enough to force her a step forward.

The Weaver laughs.

“You love them, do you not?”  She asks with care, running a hand across the ink of The Panther’s body.  She purrs, and the earth resounds her song. “You came from the stars, on the back of this comet, but you love them anyway.”

The Panther rumbles, and in her eyes reflect the starry sky.

“You will protect them,”  The Weaver asserts, “I have faith in you, daughter of the sun.”

“Who will protect you, ásynja?”  The Panther dissolves, and a woman stands before her; tall, elegant, and beautiful.  “Once you have glimpsed the future in the weft and the weave.” The Panther touches her work.  She feels for everything laid out before them, dark fingers running across the seiðr. She tilts her head curiously.  “You know what is to come, but you have no fear.”

“How can I despair that which I know, fair maiden?”  The Weaver runs her fingers down one of The Panther’s long, coarse braids.  “We can only dread the unknown.”

“What can you fear?”  The Panther asks, stepping closer.  The scent of starfire surrounds The Weaver in a comforting blanket.  A crackle of blue, flashes across the land, like the lightning from her newborn’s fingers.  The spell of protection is complete.

“What any mother does, sweet lady.”  The Weaver caresses The Panther’s noble chin.  She holds her gentle, asking permission with her eyes.  The Panther smiles, and dips her head.

Permission given, she presses a kiss to those warm, soft lips.  A breath of seiðr shared between them.

The Weaver sighs.  “I fear the inevitable death of my children.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mythological sources describe Frigg as a goddess that weaves, and in the mcu, she's known for using magic. Merge the two, and you get a goddess that weaves magic.


End file.
